


Abaddon

by Lilou88



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Consequences, Drama, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Rite of Tranquility, Tranquility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilou88/pseuds/Lilou88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The decisions Hawke made before her flight from Kirkwall come at a heavy price - one she will not be alone in bearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In all honesty I had every intention of this story being nothing more than a little ficlet to add to my collection of drabbles. But like with most everything else I attempt to keep short and sweet, it's blossomed into a full-on monster of a fic. Ah well, might as well not fight it, right?
> 
> I want to give all of my fabulous readers a fair warning that this story has a fair bit of graphic violence and a scene depicting what could be equated to torture. I should also mention that updates with this story will not be a fast process, for several reasons. 
> 
> A) the plot is very much still in development (I was too excited to share what I have so far with you guys to wait. I know, I'm terrible.)  
> B) work for me is going to become even more super-ridiculous-bonkers-crazy busy than usual with the holiday season looming over us  
> C) I'm still very much embedded in working on TCWAA (chapter 8 is in progress, I SWEAR!)  
> and D) I'm just an overall slow writer to begin with 
> 
> I am sorry, and hope you all understand and can be patient with me. I know how disheartening it can be to have a fic just drop off into nothingness, and I promise that this story will have an end eventually. It will probably just take some time for us to get there.
> 
> So! If I haven't put you off too much, I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to let me know what you think, feedback is always very much appreciated!
> 
> Before we begin, I'd just like to say a special thank you to my ever-wonderful betas, as well as LoquaciousQuark for the absolutely fantastic advice she gave me some time ago in regards to writing fight scenes. It was a HUGE help, and I hope I've done her suggestions justice!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to check out the fantastic art onemooncircles has done for this chapter, you can find it towards the end of the section section. :3

 They come for her in the dead of night, shadows biding their time in the forest's darkness. She falls into their trap unwittingly, too dazed by lack of proper rest and the troubled thoughts that have plagued her since their flight from Kirkwall to appreciate the danger of leaving the protection of their camp's fire. By the time she reaches the stream's bank, its glow has all but disappeared behind trees and dense brush, the last weak glimmer of light blocked by the sword-emblazoned armor of her hunters. Her back is to them as she bends down, waterskin barely submerged below the stream's surface when they move.

The attack is quick, calculated - obviously the result of many hours' worth of deliberation and planning. Hawke has enough time to recognize the crunch of leaves under a booted foot before a force like a whirlwind slams into her, knocking her off of her feet and into the face of a nearby boulder. Her head is thrown backward with a violent jerk and cracks against the stone, a strangled cry tearing itself from her throat as stars burst across her vision. She scrambles to a crouch, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other stretched out before her as the templars slip from cover. Her teeth grit from the pain, eyes watering as she reaches within herself to pull on her connection to the Fade – but there is nothing. She tries again, unwilling to accept the truth of what has just happened, only to have her call for flame met with nothing but a short-lived spark and puff of grey smoke.

The men surround their Silenced quarry, too close now for her to break through their ranks lest she be run through by the blades they have drawn. She is trapped, a rabbit caught and cornered, wide eyed, heart pounding in its chest as it watches a pack of wolves circle ever closer.

Their leader, a dark-haired man with a cold smile, reaches for her with a gloved hand, his fingers twisting into the shoulder of her robe to pull her forward. She panics then, lashing out with fists and feet to strike wherever she can, though it earns her nothing but bruised knuckles and a backhanded slap across her face so jarring it leaves the taste of blood on her tongue. The man's grip tightens as she continues to struggle, her arms pulled behind her back and bound with coarse rope by one of the others, a sharp-faced woman who spares no consideration for the pain she causes with her less than gentle handling.

Hawke cries out again, a wordless shout shifting to desperate pleas for help, the realization that she stands no chance of escaping this on her own a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. She calls to her friends, screams their names as loud as she can, hoping by some miracle of the Maker they can hear her across the distance separating her from camp. “Varric! Aveline!” her throat burns, head pounds, the man who holds her fast bringing his hand to knot in her hair and yanking backwards until she can see the faintest hint of the stars above through standing tears. “Help me! Fen-”

Moonlight catches against a flash of silver metal, and before the name can finish tumbling from her mouth the man has struck her with the pommel of his sword. Time shifts, coming to a near stand still as she sways in place on her knees. The ground is moving beneath her, pulsing, reaching for her until mulch and rocks have pressed themselves into the side of her face and all she sees is the polished toe of her captor's boot. The image blurs as he steps closer to her, darkness rising from nowhere to press in on the edges of her vision while distorted voices begin to speak above her, muffled as though underwater. She can feel herself slipping beneath the surface, consciousness ebbing away as surely as the tides while the Void opens beneath her, wide and black and beckoning.

It takes only moments. A short whisper more, the last of her lover's name a muttered prayer swallowed by the earth.

She falls.

 

* * *

 

It burns it burns it burns it burns it _burns_.

Fire on her skin, beneath her skull, searing through her breath. Lungs clench against the smoke, too tight for air while the stench of scorched flesh and hair make her stomach pitch and heave. She thrashes on the table like a wild thing, strains against the shackles and ropes which lash her in place with everything she has, the battle long since lost but she is unwilling to cede victory without a fight. Bone is splitting in two, she is certain of it, cracked beneath what may as well have been an ax buried between her brows for all the weight of it. Eyes water and screw shut against the white-hot blaze and the pain it has brought her, howling around gnashed teeth and a leather gag which remains the only reason she has not already severed and choked on her own tongue. The agony only grows, climbing higher and higher with each passing second, until she would gladly beg for death if only she could find her voice.

It is then that she screams, the sound clawing its way up her broken throat as something buried deep within her mind shatters. There is a final brilliant flare of pain, rage, despair, regret – a deep, rasped laugh, a smile meant only for her, green eyes which say with ease what words never could _–_ and it is gone.

Marian Hawke feels no more.

 

* * *

 

They come for her in the dead of night.

Hawke stirs from dreamless sleep, woken by the sounds of a scuffle and the stifled grunt of the templar standing watch at her tent's entrance. She sits up slowly, watching with impartial focus as a dark silhouette draws one hand away from the man's mouth and the other from his neck to lower him to the ground. Branches of the nearby bushes rustle quietly, a second shape toting what appears to be a cumbersome weapon moving from the shadows to stand beside the first. Intruders in the camp, it would seem. Ser Varlen will not be pleased to learn of this.

The newcomer is shorter than their companion, so much so they must crane their neck upward to regard them properly as they begin speaking with one another.

The taller of the two, a woman, speaks first, low-timbered and tinged with a well remembered accent. “You're sure she's in this one?”

“Has to be,” her companion says. Male, throaty, a voice worn smooth from countless tales told over a pint of cheap ale. “Why else would they post a guard out front?”

“Varric,” Hawke says flatly as she pulls herself closer to the edge of her cot. Not a question, but a statement of simple truth. “Isabela.”

Both of the intruders' heads snap up in unison to stare into the darkness of her tent, their faces thrown into deep shadow as Varric pulls a small lantern from his belt and lights it. Hawke squints at the candle flames, the sudden appearance of light a mild discomfort, though she does not think to complain. Instead, she remains silent and seated on her bed while the dwarf steps through the entryway, watching as the stiffness at the corners of his eyes ease.

“Well, look who it is. Just the Champion we were hoping to find,” he says, a pleased smile drawing itself across his face as he slings Bianca back into her holster. The crossbow's plating catches in the light when he turns to look back at Isabela, the barest hint of urgency hidden beneath the lightness of his words. “Go round up Aveline and the elf, would you? We should make ourselves scarce before Broody's patience runs out and he starts hacking his way through.”

She nods her agreement as she wipes her daggers clean and sheathes them, taking enough time to throw Hawke a wide-mouthed grin of her own before she spins on her heel. Varric comes closer as she disappears into the night, the lantern held low at his side.

“Sorry about the delay, Hawke,” he says with a warm chuckle, “but your friends here certainly know how to cover ground when they want to. Took us four days to find a set of tracks worth following, then another week of playing catch up before we got anywhere near close enough to spot them. Hope you didn't think we'd forgotten about you.”

“I admit, your arrival is unexpected,” Hawke's hands fold neatly in her lap as she looks to her friend, impassive towards his evident relief. “After the captain, Ser Varlen, brought me here, I was certain I would not see any of you again. It seems I was mistaken.”

“'Mistaken'? What, that's it?” he asks in mock affront, “No tearful reunion or heartfelt appreciation for trekking through half the Vimmark to find you? Do you have any idea how hard it was to convince your elf not to put a hole through Blondie's chest when we figured out it was the last of Meredith's men who took you? I'd wager that deserves at least a half-sincere 'thank you' if nothing else.”

“You have my apologies,” she says, the words falling from her lips with no regret behind them. “It is not my intent to offend, but your efforts here have been unnecessary. There was no need for you or any of the others to come.”

He lifts a thick brow, amusement shifting to incredulity. “Just how hard did they hit you over the head when they knocked you out? Last I checked, a mage getting herself kidnapped by templars was plenty enough reason to launch a rescue mission.”

“Your purpose here is admirable, Varric,” she says, gaze steady and unwavering in the face of his growing concern, “but I do not require your assistance. Ser Varlen intends to bring me to the Circle in Val Royeaux. I am content to oblige him.”

“Hawke,” his eyes turn serious, tinted gold by the lantern as he raises it level with her face, “what in the name of the Ancestors has gotten -”

A sharp breath as horrified realization darkens the man's face. The flame's light has fallen against her skin, drawing his focus up and to the center of her forehead where behind thick strands of bed-tousled hair a sunburst now rests, as red and hot and angry as she is bereft of all things similar.

“ _Hawke_ ,” he says again, aghast and blinking, a waver in the dwarf's ever-smooth bearing she has not witnessed since his brother's break from sanity, “by the Void - what have they done to you?”

“Only what the Maker wills,” she says, unbothered by the way her friend balks at the words. “After everything that happened in Kirkwall, I was deemed a threat to the safety of the people of the Free Marches. The templars saw a need to remedy this and have acted accordingly.”

Varric moves as though to step closer to her still, a wide hand outstretched in the space between them, when the murmur of hushed conversation sounds just outside of the tent.

“Which one is it?” a new but still familiar woman's voice asks in a whisper, its usual hard edge giving way to disquiet.

“This one, just here,” Isabela answers, the words barely heard over the chirp of crickets. “Only had one guard watching her, too. Don't know what idiot thought that was a bright idea. Not that I'm complaining. We'll have Hawke halfway to Ostwick before the rest of them even realize she's missing.”

“And you're certain she's unharmed?” another asks, low and coarse, made tight by anxiety unmistakable even from this distance. “She seemed well enough to travel?”

“So far as I could tell. No open head wounds or anything like that, at least.” They are close now, the sound of footsteps near enough to hear as they shuffle through the grass. “But she did seem a bit, I don't know, out of it I suppose. Probably hasn't had a decent night's sleep since they nabbed her.”

Varric's face turns to stone at the sound of their approach, the corners of his mouth pulled taut as he spins in place. He mutters to himself as he hurries towards the opening in the canvas, a repetition of _shit, oh shit_ nearly too quiet for her to hear. He reaches it just in time to block the newcomers' way into the shelter, the first of them sent reeling backwards at the sudden appearance of both dwarf and his high-hoisted lantern. Its light spills over the jostled man, turning a shock of white hair amber and casting the already dark expression he wears into deeper shadow. He scowls down at Varric once righted, annoyance plain in the way his brows knit themselves together over the green eyes that once held so much importance for her. Such an odd sentiment now.

“Broody! Good! Nice to see the lot of you could make it,” Varric says with what Hawke can easily tell is false cheer. He nods to Isabela and a tall, red haired woman she recognizes as Aveline, the both of them meeting his overzealous congeniality with confused glances. If the dwarf notices this or the elf's aggravation he pays them no mind, his bearing still determinedly light as he jabs a thumb backwards over his shoulder. “Listen, Hawke here's a bit more banged up than we thought when we first found her. Nothing serious,” he says quickly when his words spur Fenris to attempt a second breach of the barrier he has made of himself. “just some scrapes and bruises mostly, but I don't think it would hurt to give Blondie a heads up so he can be ready to take a look at her.”

Hawke's head tilts to one side, eyes trained intently on the man's back. She is untroubled by his determination to remove her from the templar's camp - if he and the others insist she join them then she will do so without protest. What has her curious is why Varric would feel the need to tell their friends such an obvious fallacy. With the exception of the still-tender brand, she carries no injuries worthy of note, the marks from her restraints during the ritual tended to most efficiently with salve and herbs and the bruises at her jaw and temple having all but disappeared in the time since her capture. Minor abrasions all, none of which would have necessitated the use of healing magic even at their worst. It is a most peculiar lie for the man to tell, particularly when she knows he has seen her brush off wounds far worse to continue on in their travels without any great hindrance.

Her pondering does not last long, however, her train of thought interrupted by Varric as he continues to speak with Fenris. “I say you and Rivaini head back to camp and fill him and Daisy in on what's going on. Aveline and I can stay behind to get Hawke up and ready to move.”

“Isabela is more than capable of delivering your message without assistance,” Fenris says shortly, irritation seeping into his words as he tries a third time to skirt around the dwarf's wide frame.

Varric quickly steps to the side and back into his path, lantern swinging in hand to make its flame flicker over the line of his rigid shoulders. “Come on now, elf. You know we shouldn't send someone traipsing through the woods on their own. That's how we wound up in this mess in the first place.”

“Then accompany her yourself.” His temper is rising, voice taking on a sharpened edge in his frustration. He reaches out, clawed fingers curling into Varric's arm to force the man to the side. “Now out of my way, dwarf.”

“Broody, wait. I really don't think -”

He gives no regard to the man's words, shoving past to bring himself fully into the tent. Varric turns with lantern still in hand, sudden apprehension twisting what little Hawke can see of his expression before he is hidden from her behind Fenris's back. The candle's glow casts his shadow long and lean before him, clawing its way across the floor until it falls over her like a shroud. He is all stiff movement and rigid limbs, the whole of his body drawn taut as an archer's bow when his eyes find hers in the darkness.

“ _Hawke_.”

His voice is rasped as he lowers himself to a knee before her, cut through with what must be near a fortnight's worth of worry and the sudden relief of trial's end. A long, unsteady breath leaves him as he reaches out to gather her hands within his own, his grip around them tightening as though he fears she will slip away through the cracks between his fingers. Tension drains away from him like water poured through a sieve at their touch, the hard lines drawn across his face easing into something far gentler. Hawke watches in polite silence as the beginnings of a smile turn his mouth, the affection she sees glinting in his eyes a stark contrast to the deep circles which lie beneath them. It is a look she knows well, the same once shared in secret over the tops of ale flagons and card-strewn tables, then again in the early hours of the next day as they had lain together in a nest of tangled sheets.

But these are memories belonging to a different time, a different life. One which is no longer her own, the recollections faded as though painted across a damaged canvas too far gone for her to gather any appreciation of their significance. There is no tear-filled joy in their reunion for her to find, no choking swell of emotion as he moves to cup a tender hand against her face or a smile for her to return in kind.

There is nothing.

“Your ability to find yourself in the thick of trouble will never cease to amaze,” Fenris says, still smiling with voice pitched low enough for only her to hear. He draws his thumb along the top of her cheek, a slow, repeated caress she feels no affinity for. “ _Never_ frighten me like that again. I did not enjoy it.”

“I apologize for having worried you,” Hawke says, her words as smooth and polished as his are rough, “but as I have already told Varric, your concern for me was not necessary. The templars have done me no real harm.”

Tension reappears in the span of seconds, the man's back snapped straight and hand halting mid-brush along her skin. His eyes widen as they sweep across her face, their warmth disappearing beneath a surge of panicked disbelief faster than a stone thrown into murky waters. She watches, sedate and indifferent, as his focus rises to the center of her forehead. The lyrium lining his throat shifts as he swallows, his hand at her cheek giving the slightest tremble as it reaches to sweep away the loose strands of her short-cropped hair.

There is a stab of pain at her wrists as the hand still around them tightens, steel claws digging into soft skin. She makes a noise of discomfort, its sound masked by the sharp intake of his breath as he stares into the Chantry sun and the reality it affirms.

“No,” the word cracks in his mouth, feeble as his rejection of the truth. “ _No!_ Hawke – _Marian –_ please, speak to me. Say – say _anything._ ” Both of his hands are at her face now, holding her eyes with his own. He is frantic, desperate, the grip he keeps too harsh for kindness, though Hawke supposes he is not of a mind to care. “My name. Hawke, _say my name_.”

Her head tilts to one side within his palms, brows pulling together ever so slightly. “That is an odd request of you to make. You know your name as well as I.”

He does not back down. “I need to hear you say it.”

She regards him a moment longer in silence, intrigued to see how fiercely he refuses to accept the truth for what he must know it to be. Fenris has never been one to deny realities, no matter how much he or anyone else may have wished to reject them. It is strange that he should begin doing so now, of all times.

No matter, it makes no difference. Her voice is still just as neutral, just as impassive when she speaks as it was before.

“Fenris.”

For an instant he crumbles before her, a glimpse of a sorrow more potent than she has ever seen him display flashing across his face, his hands limp as they fall to rest at the tops of her shoulders. Then it is gone, overshadowed by fury and hate and the flash of lyrium which ignites to cast him as more a demon of rage than man. In a burst of movement too quick to follow he has risen to his feet and turned, sword half-drawn from its sheath on his back as he storms towards the tent's entrance.

“Broody – Fenris, wait-”

Varric's outstretched hand is shoved away, the man too set on his course to be dissuaded. Isabela moves to join him without a word or moment's hesitation, face blank and blades freed, moonlight silvering their edges as they stalk side by side towards the center of the camp. A pale-faced Aveline shoots a glace in Hawke's direction before meeting Varric's gaze, her eyes damp but jaw set as she offers him a curt nod. He returns the gesture resignedly, just as grim, before his lantern is set down and Bianca's freed lath creaks into position.

“We'll be back for you, Hawke,” he says without looking at her, his back already turned as he follows Aveline out and into the darkness. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Hawke has risen from her cot and walked the short distance to the tent's door the camp is in utter chaos. Already the last of the men assigned for the night's watch lay slain upon the ground, lifeless eyes staring while blood pools beneath throats cleaved mid-call for aid. One of the matched tents which had been used as sleeping quarters for all save the captain and herself has been set to flames, no doubt the result of a lantern overturned in some templar's haste to join his fellows' sides. The fire burns bright and angry, illuminating the scene before her in a haze of smoke and the unsteady blaze of orange-tinted light.

Varlen's men fight well, their skill unquestionable and loyalty as steadfast as the oaths their order demands. But honor and skill offer little more protection from blades and grief-fueled rage than the cotton sleeping tunics they had not had the chance to cover in plated steel. It is not long before the fight becomes a massacre. Hawke watches on with the same analytical indifference of a scholar poring over the casualties of some ancient war long since consigned to history, unstirred by either guilt or vindication at her keepers' slaughter.

There is a high, pained cry, and her eyes shift in time to watch the sharp-faced woman who had first bound her, Ser Eleanor, she has come to learn, fall with sword half raised, an arrow shaft buried to the fletching in the center of her breast. From behind her Varric pulls Bianca's spring back with a metallic _twang,_ brows knit and a second bolt fired into the neck of a blonde youth whose name she does not recall before he skirts the edge of the encampment, his focus trained on the three familiar shapes planted in the center of the fray.

Aveline holds the middle ground, solid and unmoving as a stone golem and just as intimidating. She lashes out with shield in hand, her full weight thrown into the blow aimed for a templar's chest. The man staggers backwards and nearly topples under the weight of his hefted broadsword, his momentary distraction all the time needed for Aveline's blade to sink itself between his ribs. Two more die in quick succession by her hand, sword and pommel striking with a wet thudding _crack_ loud enough to be heard over the clatter of dropped swords and shouting voices.

By the remnants of one of the evening's cooking fires Isabela dances circles around a red-faced mountain of a man, the vicious grin she wears growing as her swift steps and well-timed parries leave her unscathed by his attacks. Roaring in both frustration and effort, the man heaves his sword in a long reaching sweep aimed for the rogue's midsection. She ducks and the blade flies overhead, crouching low enough to the embers to set the jewelry about her throat and ears ablaze. In the time it takes him to recover from his swing, Isabela has plunged one of her daggers into the middle of the glowing coals, a flick of her wrist sending them flying up and into his eyes. The man screams, sword dropped to bat them away from his face, but the sound is soon cut off by the thick, gurgled choke of a slit throat.

Before the man can drop to his knees, Isabela has dashed back towards the center of the fight, Hawke's eyes following her until her attention is snared by the living storm Fenris has become. Already the man has cut his way through half of the encampment, a trail of broken bodies all that remains of those left in his wake. He is swift and merciless as the death he brings to those caught in his path, all bared teeth and blurs of metal and blue lyrium. A smooth-faced youth, reckless in his fear, shouts as he charges from the elf's left while another of his brethren moves to flank him from behind. Fenris twists away from the poorly executed lunge, his own sword brought down to cleave the boy's shoulder in two before he turns to snarl in the face of the woman behind him, her eyes widening as a glowing fist tears her heart from her breast. Another man drops to his knees while he grasps at the stump left where his blade-wielding arm had once been, Fenris's growl barely heard over the man's screams as he finishes him. Again and again he rends flesh and bone, the twisted rage which mars his face growing while blood paints his arms and armor ever darker shades of crimson.

It is only once Fenris has carved himself a path through what few templars remain that Hawke realizes the purpose behind his drive across the camp. There, looming before the opening of his tent clad in hastily-adorned armor, stands Ser Varlen.

Even from this distance she can see his jaw is clenched, eyes burning with some mix of sorrow and righteous indignation as he looks out over the ruin of his men to find Fenris waiting, blade raised and pointed towards him in open challenge. He answers with a deepening sneer, his own weapon freed and drawn aloft as he rushes the few feet needed to close the distance between them. There is a great _clash_ as Varlen's attack is easily caught and parried, the weight he has thrown behind it making him stumble while Fenris pivots around him. The knight steadies himself in time to turn and dodge a thrust aimed for his stomach, cursing when the point barely misses the gap between the plates of his cuirass and greaves.

Their swords meet in a cacophony of shrieking metal, the men too well-matched in both skill and fury for their bout to be brought to an easy end. More than once it is not Varlen, but Fenris who barely skirts disaster, each hit he lands against the templar quickly matched by wounds of his own. A low, sweeping blow catches him by surprise in the back of his right thigh before he can turn out of its path. Another swing not ducked away from quickly enough grazes across the back of the opposite shoulder. Pain begins to show behind the fury in his face, the favor he places on his injuries hidden but not unseen. And yet Hawke watches on, heart still as the grave while Fenris bleeds.

In the end, however, it is not he who falls. Eventually, the templar begins to show signs of fatigue, the power behind his blows lagging and his breath labored while their fight drags on. Fenris remains relentless as he presses forward, no mercy to be found in the hard glint of his eyes as more and more of his attacks begin to find their target. Finally, a long upward swing from his broadsword catches Varlen full in the side and sends him flying backwards, one hand pressed firmly over the quick-spreading stain of his own blood. He spares the wound a short glance, brow taut and breath drawn through clenched teeth as he stares down both Fenris and what Hawke is certain he sees to be his ruin.

The strain in his jaw becomes a glower, anger and pride overcoming agony to take one and then two short steps forward. Until, with a sudden roar and burst of what little of his strength remains, he charges, sword held fast between his hands and raised for a final attack. Fenris feints to one side at the last moment, his own blade brought down hard with a harsh growl into the man's back to send him sprawling to the dirt.

Varlen has barely enough time to raise his head before the other man is on him once again, sword abandoned to take hold of his cuirass and drag him bodily across the whole of the camp. They reach Hawke in a matter of moments, the templar thrown violently to the ground at her feet. He groans into the dirt as she gazes down at him in bland curiosity, the gash at the small of his back already caked in a thick layer of blood.

Fenris drops beside him without a glance towards her, his mouth a jagged line as he fists a hand at the back of the man's neck. He snarls, each word dripping with malice. “Look at her.”

Varlen's eyes are distant as his head is lifted for him, the effort needed for focus too much for him to muster. The grip Fenris keeps in his hair tightens before he smashes him forward into the ground with full force, an agonized moan shot through by the _crunch_ of bone. Blood runs from a mangled nose when his head is raised again.

“ _You will look at what you have done,_ ” Fenris says, voice barely more than a venom-laced hiss.

A long pause, several deep, ragged breaths, and Varlen's eyes open to stare up into Hawke's face. For a moment she sees the barest hint of sadness, resignation at an unavoidable fate as steel-clad hands shift to either side of his jaw.

The snap of his neck is like thunder in the silence that follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your patience. Hopefully you feel this chapter is worth the wait. Once I've gotten the next section of TCWAA up and posted I'll be back to working on this fic. :3

Quiet quickly falls over the clearing, the panicked voices and violent ends of moments earlier dragged beneath an otherworldly calm. The forest has grown unnaturally still around them, hushed as though in recognition of what has come to pass.

On the edge of her vision, Hawke can see that what remains of the templar's tent has crumbled in upon itself. Now nothing more than a charred and smoking husk, its flames burn just bright enough to silhouette Varric, Isabela and Aveline as they meet in the center of the ruined camp. One of the women – Aveline, she believes, though it is difficult to be certain at this distance – says something to the others. Varric answers with a curt shake of his head, the lines of his face hard as granite. He throws a cautious glance at Hawke, his focus jumping down towards her feet for the barest of seconds before he looks away, muttering through thin-pressed lips.

Hawke's attention shifts away from the dwarf, her gaze settling on the back of Fenris' neck where he crouches over Varlen's corpse before her. Like all else around them he does not stir, hands held fast to either side of the man's broken neck; his back rigid, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath the only movement he makes. Varric's lantern, still resting just outside the doorway to her tent, throws warm light across his back, the dark spreading stain at his shoulder surrounding a tear in his leathers shining in the glow. Hawke's brows pull together absentmindedly as her eyes travel over the rest of him, finding a similar rend at his thigh where the first of Varlen's blows had landed.

Turning in place, Hawke slips back into the darkness of her tent, squinting against the lack of light as she steps towards the small chest resting at the foot of her cot. The lid's hinges protest with a soft _creak,_ falling open to reveal a number of delicate vials tucked amongst a set of brass scales and an assortment of dried herbs. Glass clinks against glass as she bends over to run one hand along their stoppers, noticing but indifferent to the sound of movement behind her while she continues searching through the bottles. Her fingers brush against a squat, red vial, her grip tightening around its neck to pull it gently from its place between its fellows before the trunk is closed again with a quiet _click_. Back straightening, she crosses to the tent's opening to see that Fenris has brought himself back to his feet. Hands loose at his sides and shoulders curved forward, he watches her approach with an expression caught somewhere between wariness and a mourner's anguishshe finds most strange, though whatever inclination she may have had to give voice to the thought is dismissed as she takes in the elf's appearance.

Now closer to him than she has been since the beginning of the skirmish, Hawke spies a number of smaller nicks and injuries she had not seen before, hidden from her notice by the gore splattered over his armor and limbs. A thin cut runs diagonally along one of his cheeks, tracks of half-dried blood caked onto skin that is beginning to swell, while several shallow gashes line the length of his arms where they are not covered in leather. The wounds at his shoulder and thigh are the worst of the lot by far, the discomfort they cause him apparent now that the storm has passed and his need for bravado with it. His weight has shifted onto his uninjured leg, its fellow raised with only the ball of its foot left in contact with the ground. His shoulder he holds stiff, and what little movement he does make is painful enough to pinch his features and set the muscle at his jaw fluttering. It is impressive, Hawke notes in clinical interest, how easily a body can overlook such obvious signs of duress when placed under the influence of a strong enough combination of rage and adrenaline. Perhaps selecting a more potent draught of her elfroot mixtures had not been as inordinate a choice as she had originally believed.

“Here,” she says simply, offering the vial to him in an outstretched hand, “take this.”

The elf's gaze flicks to her own, then up towards her forehead and away again in the span of an instant. His eyes turn to the bottle in her hand, wounded-looking beneath the dark slashes of his brows as though the sight of it distresses him. He does not reach for it.

“It is elfroot potion,” she says in explanation, undeterred by the way Fenris seems to flinch at the sound of her voice. “Your injuries are not life-threatening, but it is not wise to allow them to remain open any longer than is necessary. Infection will begin to set in. You will wish to avoid it.”

A corner of his mouth rises and falls. “So you have mentioned in the past,” he says, the words gravel on stone.

There is a long pause between them, Hawke left incapable of providing whatever reaction he seems to expect. “They... allowed you to continue crafting?” he eventually asks, chagrin making his voice rougher still while the question comes out as though he is unsure whether or not it is appropriate.

“Yes. Varlen saw value in my ability and permitted me the supplies to make elfroot and lyrium potions once I had healed,” she says, her eyes lifting to look out over the shapes of fallen templars littering the ground. “Though it seems they have done him and his men little benefit in the end.”

Fenris's shoulders stiffen. “No. It seems they haven't,” he says, something hard lacing itself through his reply. He gives himself a short shake, strands of white hair coming loose to fall into his eyes as he raises a hand, sullied steel closing around the vial to lift it from her grasp. Still he does not look at her, though his words have lost the callous edge as swiftly as it came. “Thank you, Hawke. I... am grateful for your help.”

“You are welcome, Fenris.”

The cork pulls free without a sound; the bottle is raised half way to his lips when Fenris pauses, mouth working as though he wishes to say something. It is dismissed with another shake of his head, however, and before Hawke has time to do more than wonder if the haggard expression spreading across his face is due to increased awareness of his injuries, he has tossed back the whole of the potion in two large swallows.

He moves to place the vial back into her hand when footsteps sound beyond the doorway of her tent. Hawke looks up at the same time Fenris turns to glance over one shoulder to see their companions approaching. The three of them soon step into the glow of the lantern burning at Hawke's feet, the sword Fenris had abandoned during the last moments of his fight with Varlen now held fast in the grip of an ashen-faced Aveline.

“This is yours,” she says tightly. Her eyes are puffy and tinged red, most likely because of the smoke, though Hawke finds it odd that neither Varric nor Isabela show a similar reaction. Aveline lifts the blade in offering to Fenris, who takes hold of its hilt and slides it back into place between his shoulders.

“My thanks,” he says quietly as he begins adjusting the straps of its scabbard, expression turned suddenly vacant at their arrival.

For a long while there is nothing further said, a silence falling around them made up of the same wire-tight strain Hawke recalls once being unable to stand. In the past it had made her edgy, more nervous than any confrontation with slavers or the Carta ever had. Then, she would have made an attempt to lessen the tension, making some terrible pun or poorly-timed quip in the hopes of distracting herself and the others from their anxieties. Now, however, the desire to intervene is absent, and whatever discomfort she may have felt is nothing more than a vague memory.

Instead Hawke chooses to wait the moment out, her gaze passing unnoticed over the four friends clustered around her doorway. Varric remains uncharacteristically silent, thick brows knitted together over eyes that move from Hawke to Fenris and back again with a few brief glances shot towards Aveline and Isabela. Aveline rocks from one foot to the other, her focus on her boots as she scuffs them through grass and dirt, one hand freeing itself from her glove to wipe at her eyes and drag itself across her face. Contrary to the fervor he had shown minutes before, Fenris now stands in solemn detachment as he stares off into the forest surrounding the camp, expression as smooth and empty as the sea after a summer squall.

Hawke's notice drifts last over Isabela, bandana off kilter, tunic and thigh stained by blood both her own and not. A wide gash runs across the front of her leg several inches above the cuff of her boot, shallow but still enough to warrant treatment. There is a soft rustle of leather and cotton as she shifts in place, one hand coming to rest at her hip as she returns Hawke's gaze. The corner of her mouth lifts when their eyes meet, something akin to determination and sadness both glinting in her eyes as she closes the space between them, hand wavering before she reaches out to wrap one arm about Hawke's shoulders.

“Come on, Kitten,” she says gently, giving her arm a soft squeeze, “Let's get your things together and put you in some different clothes. Much as I love seeing you in your underthings, I can't imagine walking through the woods in your nightgown would be much fun.”

“You have been wounded as well,” Hawke says, allowing herself to be escorted back into her tent.

“This little thing?” Isabela asks, glancing at her leg before she turns back to loosen the ties holding back the canvas door covering. “Hardly a scratch. You've seen me in poorer shape – threatened to give me worse yourself on a few occasions,” she says, giving a chuckle which does not sound wholly genuine, the flap falling closed with a soft _swish_. “You always were a bit of a spoilsport when it came to cards, you know. Hide a few angels down your bodice and suddenly you're branded a cheater for life.”

“It should still be treated.”

“Well, you're our only healer at the moment. What do you say?” She gestures towards the empty vial in Hawke's hand with her chin. “Got any more of those lying around?”

Hawke nods before she moves to the foot of her bed again, a second vial pulled and replaced with the empty one, not bothering to close the lid as she stands and turns.

“Take only a small mouthful,” she says as she places the potion in Isabela's waiting hand. “Your injury is not as severe as Fenris's were. Drinking it all would be a waste.”

“If this stuff tastes half a bad as I remember, that'll be the last thing you need to worry about.” Isabela uncorks it with a flick of her wrist, raising it with a flourish in her direction. “To your health, Hawke.” The bottle tips back just far enough for the glass to brush against her lips, a swallow's worth of potion pouring into her mouth before it is leveled and sealed again. A shiver wracks along Isabela's back as she forces it down her throat, grimacing. “No, I was wrong. It's even worse. Bitter as a jilted fishwife.”

“I apologize. I would have offered you something to improve the taste if it were available to me,” Hawke says as she takes the vial from her hand, stooping to place it back in her chest.

Isabela waves a hand in her direction before moving to collect a set of neatly folded robes from a small table in the corner. “Not like there was anything you could do about it,” she says, wincing as the edges of her gash begin to knit themselves back together. “Here, put these on.”

Hawke complies, reaching behind her neck to undo the buttons of her shift. She dresses herself with no fuss, Isabela stepping behind her to adjust the fastenings of the robe before she pulls the tie in her braid free, combing her fingers through the sleep-mussed hair before throwing it back into a simple plait. Afterword they begin to gather what few possessions Hawke had been allowed, working silently to the hushed sound of conversation which has picked back up outside of the tent.

“Wh – _hmm –_ what should we do?” Aveline asks, voice catching before she clears her throat.

“For now? Stick to the plan. Get Hawke back to camp,” Varric answers. “Then we... Well, we weigh our options and cross bridges as they come to us, I suppose.”

“And the bodies? We never planned on leaving a trail behind. The Order will get suspicious if they're expecting a report that doesn't come in. It won't be long before they send out a search party and find this mess.”

There's the sound of shifting leather and metal. “Not much we can do about it at this point. Best option is to leave everything as is. If we're lucky they'll think it was bandits or a raid by hill folk.”

“And if we aren't?”

“Then whoever they send will be smart enough to notice they're one mage corpse short and'll go off looking for where it went.”

“Let them come,” Fenris says, short and brimming with grim promise. “They can join their fellows.”

“I think that's the lot of it, Kitten,” Isabela says as the voices outside her tent drop away, the chest of potions braced against her hip with one hand while the other holds out a small satchel of clothes and other sundries which Hawke takes to drape across her shoulder. “Come on. Let's get you out of here.”

Three sets of eyes are upon them as they make their way out of the tent, the air about them thick with a somberness Hawke imagines better suited to a funeral procession than a gathering of friends.

“Are we ready to head out?” Isabela asks as she comes to a stop, the lightness in her words bearing a forced edge. “I don't know about you lot, but I'm more than ready to be clear of this place.”

“Agreed,” Varric says, bending to retrieve his lantern from the ground before looking back to Hawke. “What do you say?” he asks, surprisingly mild, his tone that of someone trying to coax compliance from a frightened child. “Do you want to come back with us?”

“If it pleases you,” she says flatly, absently noting the way Fenris goes rigid at her reply.

“I guess we can take that as a 'yes' for now.” Varric turns, motioning at a break in the wall of trees surrounding the camp as he steps off towards it. “Let's move out. If we're lucky we'll get back in time to catch a few hours of sleep.”

 

* * *

 

They do not speak as they make their way through the woods, their footfalls and the creak of shifted tree limbs the only sounds heard as Varric leads the way through the brush. Isabela and Aveline walk just behind either of the dwarf's shoulders, each with a hand wrapped around a handle of Hawke's chest.

Hawke and Fenris follow after, the elf having fallen in at her side without a word or glance, his eyes trained forward and unfaltering in their focus on the trail. His reticence does not leave him unreadable, however, and while Hawke is not ignorant to the tension he carries, she cannot fathom why it remains when danger has long since past. He maintains a careful distance throughout their journey, close enough for her to smell the blood still clinging to his armor, but never so near as to allow even an accidental brush of fingers. He touches her only once, reaching out to grasp her wrist and steady her when the hem of her robe catches against a branch while climbing over a fallen tree. His hand lingers after she is balanced again with both feet returned to the ground, the touch warm against her skin while a thumb begins to slide itself lower, tracing the inside of her palm with the pointed end of his gauntlet.

“Thank you for your help,” she says plainly, neither heartened nor discomfited by the gesture. “You may let go now.”

He tears his hand away from her as though burned, Hawke unblinking as he flicks his eyes up to her own and away, locked back into place on the path before them. “Of – of course. My apologies,” he says stiffly as they begin walking again, and if there had been sadness in his gaze it is gone too quickly for her to find again, vanished behind the mask he has tied so firmly in place.

They travel for an hour and some time more before Varric motions for them to stop. He tears a glove free from one hand to press its fingers to his mouth, giving three short, high pitched whistles as he lifts his lantern to swing in a slow side-to-side. They wait only moments before the same signal is returned, muffled by distance but still clear, the light of a second swaying lantern just visible through the breaks between tree trunks.

“All's calm on their end,” Varric says as he lowers his arm, his fingers slipped back into his glove before he continues in a muttered aside Hawke is certain is not meant for their ears. “At least, for the next few minutes.”

The forest around them thins the closer they come to the light's source, trees giving way to shrubs and shrubs to grass until they stand on the edge of a small clearing not unlike the one which had held the templars' camp. A low fire burns in its center, bedrolls and packs scattered around it on all sides. A young woman sits close to the ring of rocks lining its pit, chin cradled between her hands as she stares out into the darkness surrounding them, a pair of large green eyes turned glassy from the flames. Another, this one a noticeably distressed-looking man, marches back and forth behind the woman, fingers raking through blond hair to muss the ponytail at the back of his head.

The woman's head lifts, pointed ears giving a nearly imperceptible twitch as her attention jumps to where they have moved from out of the treeline.

“ _Hawke!_ ” Merrill cries, brightening at the sight of them. In the time it takes Anders to jerk to a stop and turn, she has bounded to her feet and across half the distance separating them. “Thank Mythal, you _found_ her!” She slides to a stop in front of them, weaving her way past Aveline and Isabela without heed of the concerned look that flits between them, deaf to Varric's cautionary “Hold on a minute, Daisy!”.

“We were all so worried, _lethallan_ ,”she says, beaming as she wraps her arms about Hawke's waist, her head tucking itself close to the crook of her shoulder. “I don't think Anders has slept at all since they took you. Poor thing started pacing as soon as Varric and everyone else left to find you and he hasn't stopped since. He wanted to come along and help – both of us did, actually – but Aveline didn't think it would be a good idea with all the templars around and – I'm rambling, aren't I? I'm sorry, it's just so wonderfulto have you back.”

“There was no need for your concern, Merrill,” Hawke says, jaw brushing against the elf's hair as she speaks and arms hanging loose at her sides, the embrace left wholly unreciprocated.

Merrill lifts her head to look up at her, her hands fisted into the back of Hawke's robes. “Are you all right?” she asks, eyes squinting as they trace the lines of her face, sunburst hidden by shadow and loose fallen hair. “You don't sound quite yourself. You're not feeling ill, are you? I'm sure Anders–”

A sudden rush of movement beside them cuts Merrill's suggestion short. Once again the veil Fenris wears has been torn away, this time replaced by barred teeth and a snarl as he storms across the few feet left between Anders and their gathering, the mage giving a startled grunt when his throat is caught between false claws.

“What in all the bloody Void are you _doing?_ ” he chokes out, voice and expression distorted as his hands scrabble against the steel at Fenris's wrist. “Let go of me, you blighted – _Argh!_ ”

Merrill spins away from Hawke, her hands flying to her mouth, horror struck at the scene playing out before her. “Creators, no! Fenris, what are you – Fenris, stop, please! You'll hurt him!”

Fenris pays the plea no mind, his grip tightening around the mage's neck to send flashes of blue light skittering up his arm. “ _You_ ,” he growls, and Hawke hears the same venom he had spit in Varlen's face return. “You caused this.”

Anders sputters, heels raised off the ground and still struggling. “I don't – I don't even know what you're talking about, you lunatic!”

“They never would have come for her if it weren't for you. You and your precious _revolution_.” Another rasped breath, a flash of light not of this world flaring behind Anders' eyes. “I should end you now. Grant you the martyrdom you wanted.”

The threat pushes the others to action but it is Varric who reaches him first, a hand raised and dropped as closely to the elf's shoulder as their difference in height allows. Fenris's head snaps around, the glare he throws down towards the dwarf feral enough that Hawke hears Merrill breathe in another frightened gasp beside her. Varric, however, holds his ground.

“Don't do this, Fenris,” he says firmly. “You need to let the man go.”

“Why should I? It's no less than he deserves.”

“And you're free to keep thinking that all you want,” Varric says doggedly, raising both his hands in placation. “But take a minute to look at the situation we're in. If there's any way to help Hawke, Blondie's the best chance she has and you won't be doing her any favors by killing him. You know it just as well as I do.”

“Hawke?” Anders wheezes, the glow behind his eyes dying as they snap to where she stands between Merrill and Isabela. “What's happened? What's wrong with Hawke?”

The question is ignored at first, Fenris's scowl slowly turning pensive and then resigned, until he bites out a foreign curse only he understands. “See for yourself,” he says, his grip around Anders' throat dropping to the collar of his robes, the mage pulled and thrown toward her.

He stumbles to a halt, hand rubbing at his neck with a glare tossed back in the elf's direction before he turns to face Hawke, who sees that Merrill's claims held no exaggeration. He is thinner than he was before she was taken, his appearance peaked and bordering on gaunt. Eyes turned bloodshot from lack of proper sleep stare out at her over cheekbones more prominent than she remembers them ever having been, even during their first meeting in a Darktown sewer. His indignation at his treatment falls away within moments of catching her gaze, worry lines creasing his forehead and eyes widening.

“They didn't,” Anders says in disbelief, the words more a plea than affirmation. “They wouldn't _dare_.”

“Wouldn't dare what?” Merrill asks nervously, focus jumping from Anders' disquiet to Hawke's serene calm, until something clicks into place and she draws in a short, sharp breath. “You don't mean they – no. No, they'd never! Not after everything Hawke did for Kirkwall. She's their Champion, they wouldn't make her tran– They wouldn't hurt her.”

“Hawke, tell me what they did to you,” Anders says, Merrill's insistence ignored as he takes a slow step forward. What little color that had been in his face vanishes, and Hawke thinks it a sign that he is well aware of the answer to his question.

She looks at him for a moment, takes in the way the cracks in his resolve have grown, and wonders idly if this will be the moment she sees him shatter.

“I have been given peace.”

Anders closes the distance between them in two short strides, fingers cold against her forehead as he sweeps the fringe of her hair aside to leave the brand between her brows exposed. Merrill makes a strangled noise at the sight of it, a sob caught halfway in her throat and forced back, fingers pressing themselves against her lips. Anders' hand falls away as he falters where he stands, a quick shift of feet all that keeps him upright.

“No... not again,” he says in a voice nearly too quiet for Hawke to hear. “Karl... and now you.”

His hand rises again to cup itself against the side of her face, trembling as it rises from jaw to cheek to temple, the movement slow and cautious as though she is some delicate thing he expects to crumble to dust if not handled with care. The end of his forefinger pauses no more than a hair's breadth from raised and reddened flesh, brows furrowing as he stares at the mark. His eyes are tight and troubled, brown backlit by the return of a faint blue glow. He swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing in place, and moves, a single finger drawing itself across the half-healed brand with a touch lighter than any spring breeze.

Agony, sharp and hot as broken glass thrown to flames, flares to life in the center of Hawke's head, and suddenly she has returned to the top of a rough wooden table. She can feel the bindings at her wrists and ankles, smells sweat and burning skin and hears Varlen above and beside her, his voice cool and unaffected as he calls for assistance. The iron against her head is taken away, and her eyes open in time to see Eleanor bend over her, mouth tilted in a crooked line as she dips a gloved hand into a bowl of viscous blue something, three fingers' worth smeared into her wound. Varlen returns, iron still in hand and glowing red-hot. Hawke feels her heart pound faster beneath her ribs at the sight, mouth gone dry around her gag, eyes thrown wide, knowing with the certainty of a condemned man that this is to be her end and she is frightened more than she has ever been in her life.

_She is frightened._

Hands close around the tops of her arms like vices. Anders' touch is torn away and her fear flees with it, a candle flame smothered and snuffed out between two fingers. Hawke opens eyes she does not remember closing, as composed and hollow as she has ever been, a dull, throbbing ache just behind the front of her skull all that is left to her. Isabela's grasp gentles but does not leave once she has steadied herself, dark fingers twisted into the fabric of her robes. Someone curses, and Hawke turns to find Anders' wrist caught in Fenris's fist.

“What did you do to her?” he demands, voice low and threatening, gauntlet digging into the cuff of Anders' coat.

He gives a listless tug against Fenris's hold but soon relents, hand going limp in the elf's grasp. “Nothing,” he says, deflated. “I did nothing.”

Fenris's eyes narrow in suspicion. “What other reason would there be for her to shout like that?”

The pain behind her skull gives a heavy twinge and Hawke blinks, unable to recall making any such noise. She moves to make mention of it, the words half-formed and pressed against her lips – but Anders speaks first, and she falls again into silence.

“Lyrium,” he says, and this time when he tugs against Fenris's grip he is successful in breaking free, rubbing at his wrist with his other hand. “When the templars... during the rite. It's used with the – when they use the iron. It's why it takes so long for the wound to scar over – it soaks into the skin, makes the healing process slower.” He makes a gesture towards Hawke, outstretched hand shaking. “She... Hawke's brand is still fresh. The lyrium left in it must have reacted to my magic when I touched her. I – at least, I think that's what happened.”

“You aren't sure though,” Isabela says bluntly beside her, palms slowly sliding down Hawke's arms until they come to rest at both of her elbows.

“I'm not certain, no. But it's the only explanation I can think of. What other reason could there be?”

“How could they get away with this?” Merrill asks, her hands still raised and cupped around her mouth, eyes damp. “That man – Ser Cullen, wasn't it? He was left in charge after Meredith, wasn't he? He helped us when she wanted to kill Hawke, why would he let this happen to her?”

“The Knight-Captain had no knowledge of Ser Varlen's plan,” Hawke says, earning several stares from the group. When they do not look away she continues on in explanation. “I overheard him speaking with Ser Eleanor about it one night. They assumed everyone to be asleep. Varlen believed Ser Cullen was too compassionate towards the mages and unworthy of Meredith's position. He was certain he would try to detain him should he have known of his intentions. A report was to be sent to the Knight-Vigilant in Val Royeaux to inform them of Varlen's decision to bring me to Orlais when we passed through the next port town. Your arrival prevented him from doing so.”

“Well,” Varric says, giving a heavy sigh as he runs a hand along the back of his neck, “at least we don't have to worry about the Order catching wind of what happened too soon.”

“But why would he only come for Hawke?” Merrill asks, mouth clamping shut as soon as the words have left it, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I'm so sorry,” she says as she throws a sheepish glance towards Anders, tattoosstanding out against the pink tinge slowly spreading across her face. “That was terrible of me. I didn't mean to imply – I mean – oh, dear.”

Anders dismisses the apology with an impartial wave of his hand. “It's fine, Merrill.”

“And yet still an excellent question,” Fenris says bitterly as he turns to Anders, his mouth lifting into a sneer. “Hawke may have defended the Circle, but she wasn't the one responsible for throwing a city into chaos.”

Hawke answers again, dry and unmoved. “He intended to find him as well. The day after the rite was completed Varlen questioned me. He wished to know where Anders was. I told him I had not seen him in some time, that we parted ways soon after leaving Kirkwall.”

Anders blinks. “What?”

“You lied to him,” Isabela says in disbelief, fingers flexing around Hawke's arms before she looks to Anders as well. “Can tranquil do that? Be dishonest?”

He gives a slow, stunned nod. “The rite... severs a mage's connection to the Fade. It takes away their emotions, not their free will. They can still think and make decisions for themselves, it's just much more... clinical. If they're going to lie, it won't be because they want to avoid being embarrassed or punished, but because they believe telling the truth would be counter-productive.”

“Varlen would not have been as forgiving as he was with me should he have captured you,” Hawke says, her hands folding together in front of her. “He felt you were beyond redemption and deserving of death. I disagree.”

“Hawke...”

“She saved your life,” Fenris spits. “Protected you _again_.”

“Don't think I don't realize it,” Anders says back with a snap, but the anger in his voice is left lacking. “I'll find a way to make this right, I swear.” He turns then, facing Hawke, jaw set with the same determination she had seen him wear the night Kirkwall burned.

“I _swear_.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the point in this story where I've started to make allusions to canon which doesn't take place strictly in the Dragon Age games. Those of you who have read Gaider's book Dragon Age: Asunder will most likely be able to spot them fairly quickly. The mention in this chapter isn't too much of a spoiler if you haven't read it, but I figured I should warn you all now as I will be making more references to it later on in further updates. 
> 
> That being said, I really, REALLY enjoyed putting this chapter together, and I hope you all have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. If you're liking the story so far, please let me know! Comments on my fics make my world go round and are a huge motivator for me. :3
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen it already, make sure to check out the awesome art onemooncircles has done for chapter one! You can find it towards the end of the second section. :3

_ Two months earlier _

 

The boulder at Hawke's back is cool against her skin, its chill passing easily through layered robes and tunic as she presses her shoulders into its face, the stone granting more support than her own feet. Her knees tremble when she slides herself down, legs brought tight against her chest and arms wrapping around them as she comes to rest at the boulder's base; head back, eyes closed and breath coming slow and deep. For some time she does not stir, content to sit quietly while listening to the others speak in whispers as they go about their business setting camp for the night. Nearby someone strikes flint, woodsmoke rising quickly to mingle with the salt in the air, and it is too easy for Hawke to fool herself into thinking this night no different from the countless others they have spent along the Wounded Coast. Just another mission, another task put upon her to find some missing nobleman's daughter or ingredients for Solivitus's shop. Come morning this will all be done; she and her friends will return home and this horror of a night will prove itself nothing more than a bad dream.

Hawke has never been one fortunate enough to receive such stokes of luck, however, and when she grits her teeth and opens her eyes it is to see all has remained as she feared. It is a cruel irony, she thinks to herself as she stares out over jagged bluffs and dark waters, to see how little the world around her has changed despite its complete upheaval. The waves beneath them still roar as they crash and break against the rocks, the breeze off the ocean still crisp as it races through wind-blown grasses and tears wisps of hair free from her braid. This entire place is calm, serene, uncaring that mere miles away, Kirkwall –  _her_ Kirkwall – burns. Away in the distance fires mark the Gallows and what had until this night been the Chantry, their flames too far to be seen as more than red and orange smears against the waters of the harbor and white walls of Hightown. The leaden weight which had settled into the pit of Hawke's stomach hours ago drops lower to see how far the flames at the top of the city have spread, her mind turning traitor to flash images of just how close they must now be to her own estate. Her fingers twist into her robes as she sends a silent prayer to the Maker for her household's safety – that Carver has made it back to her home as he had promised to help Bodahn keep Sandal and the others safe. She tears her eyes away, unable to stomach the sight any longer. 

Distraction thankfully comes soon after, the sound of feet through grass and sand catching her notice in time for her to watch Fenris lower himself slowly to the ground beside her. His hand rests on a bended knee as he settles, his other leg stretching out before him as he leans back into the boulder, close enough for their arms and shoulders to press against one another. His expression is blank, made all the more unreadable by the glow of the fire Merrill tends which casts half his face in shadow, sharp lines silhouetted by light that turns pale hair amber. Hawke watches him for several moments but he does not meet her gaze, his own locked out over the sea. Shortly she turns her focus to follow his, mouth pressing thin to again take in the ruin of both a city and life she had thought herself past losing.

“It's always going to be like this, isn't it?” she asks heavily, her eyes held fast to Kirkwall. “Ten years... Longest I've lived in one place since as far back as I can remember. And I was so sure this was finally it, someplace I could actually consider home. I never did like letting myself get attached to places like this – only made having to leave them all the harder when the time came. But  _ten years._ I kept thinking 'this time, Marian, maybe this time'... Except now the only change is that I can't even blame the darkspawn for running us off. Just my own stupidity.”

There is a pause, the air between them stilled long enough for Hawke to wonder if she had perhaps not spoken the words aloud as she thought, when Fenris shifts beside her. “There are some who would call what you have done noble,” he says softly, the low rumble nearly lost to the sound of the surf.

Hawke spits a short, hard laugh, its taste bitter in her mouth. “'Idiotic' is more appropriate, if you ask me. It isn't like anything I've done has made a damned bit of difference.”

“The mages whose lives you saved – and those you showed mercy to – would no doubt beg to differ.”

Something hard as iron tightens around Hawke's chest, her eyes flicking without thought to where Anders stands by himself. His back is to the rest of the group, both hands held firm around the shaft of his staff with his weight leaned forward onto its point. He too stares out over the waters towards the burning city, the line of his shoulders curved but taut, and Hawke finds it difficult to know whether he would be more likely to snap or crumble in upon himself if touched.

She continues to stare at him as she says, hushed: “If it had been your decision to make... you would have killed him, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” Fenris says, without waver.

“And you think I was wrong to spare him, don't you?”

“No.”

Hawke blinks at that, the answer catching her enough by surprise that she turns away from Anders to send him a puzzled look. Fenris meets her gaze this time, the light from the fire catching against the green of his eyes, their corners pinched in interest. “Though I must admit I find myself curious as to why.”

“I'm not sure of that myself,” she says, brow creasing while heat prickles along the back of her neck, the discovery of Anders' betrayal far too raw not to sting when her thoughts shift to it. “When I realized this was what he'd been planning all along – what I'd done by helping him—” 

“The mage took advantage of your friendship and manipulated you,” Fenris says, his voice still even and low but taking on a defensive edge. The fingers of the hand against his knee curl into themselves as he continues, Hawke watching them from the corner of her eye. “Whatever guilt there is in that is his to bear, not yours.”

“And  _I_ didn't exactly question what he was doing, either. I bought into his story about that potion without a second thought, right from the start. Now Elthina and everyone else who was caught in the middle of the Chantry being turned to rubble is dead. Look at it from all the angles you like, but part of that blame comes down to me not having the sense to see what was happening a foot in front of my nose,” Hawke says as she draws her legs closer to her chest, her expression turned tight and voice catching unexpectedly around a knot lodged in the base of her throat. She lowers her head to one side, coughs to clear it, and swallows against the hurt which has been threatening to overtake her since they had placed an hour's worth of distance between themselves and the city. 

A moment later she turns back, composed but quieter, her eyes dropped to the tops of her knees, unsure of how best to phrase this next confession. “Honestly, when I think about it now? I... wanted to do it. Kill him. A part of me anyway. Thought he deserved it for what he's done, but in the end I just... I couldn't. I keep telling myself it's because this mess is his doing. That what's happened here tonight isn't going to end in Kirkwall and he needs to see how far it spreads, how many mages are going to suffer for it and do his damned part to set things right. But it isn't that,” she says, the mage's back drawing her focus once more, the iron about her chest clamping harder to see a shaking hand come free of his staff to rake its fingers through already mussed hair.

“You pity him.”

“No,” she says, steadier than she expects. “He's troubled, yes, and what he's done... I don't think it's something that can ever be forgiven. But Anders is still my friend, or was for a time, at least. After everything we've been through together, all the times he's helped us over the years – I can't bring myself to believe that part of him is gone.” The back of her head bumps against the stone behind her when she tilts it back, her eyes closing as she breathes out a long, tired sigh. “Maker, I'm a blighted fool, aren't I?”

“Being merciful is not the same as being foolish, Hawke.”

A half-hearted grin pulls at Hawke's mouth as she snorts, her eyes cracking open to glance at the elf beside her. “A minute ago you said you'd have killed him outright. Having a change of heart, are we?”

Fenris shrugs, leather creaking against metal. “My feelings on the matter are of little consequence. However justified his death may have been, killing the mage would have done nothing to prevent Meredith from moving against the Circle.”

“And so I go ahead and force myself into the middle of that debacle as well. You always did warn me against sticking my nose into business it didn't belong in.”

A laugh, richer and smoother than should be right for a conversation such as this. “After all this time it would be naïve of me to expect anything less from you.”

“And look at what it's cost,” Hawke says, with none of the same humor. “Sebastian's gone and likely wants my head on a pike just as much as Anders', and none of us will be able to step foot within thirty miles of Kirkwall once everything's calmed down, let alone our own homes. Maker, it's one thing if I want to go ahead and turn myself into a fugitive – but to force everyone else into this with me _—_?”

“You did no such thing.” That edge is back, harder this time than before. “Everyone here joined your side willingly. I doubt they regret their decision.”

“Do _you_?”

No sooner does the question leave her than Hawke begins to regret it, the stunned, almost wounded look which pulls itself across his face painful for her to see. Her head lifts from the stone and turns away, hands coming loose from around her legs for her to stare at them in her lap, the weight of Fenris's gaze too much for her to face head on. She picks at the edge of quick-bitten fingernails with her thumb, wishing nothing more than to be able to drop the subject entirely and loathing the impossibility of it. There are certain questions which must be asked, certain things which she would know now when they will be just one more wound to an already numbed heart rather than later when they might shatter it. She draws a deep breath in and holds it as long as she can, then breathes out, as much of her apprehension sent into the night sky with it as she can manage, pulse pounding in her ears as she tries to steady herself for the chance of an answer she does not wish to hear.

She does not look at him as she speaks.

“I hate that I've done this to you. Even with everything that's happened since we met – Hadrianna, Danarius – you'd finally managed to have a little peace, didn't have to worry about running or watching behind your back every place you went. And now I've gone and put you back into the exact same blighted place you were before.” She pauses, clears her throat again, then forces the words out of herself, because she knows it is only right to make all options known, no matter how much this particular one will hurt should he make use of it. “I know I already lost you Kirkwall, but... that doesn't mean you couldn't find some other city, some other place to settle.”

He catches her meaning immediately. “On my own, you mean.”

“I suppose it would have to be,” she says, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smile she does not feel. “It isn't like I'll be able to go strolling through the middle of the market in Denerim any time soon, is it? But you, you could still blend in with the crowds.”

Fenris snorts. “You speak as though I would manage to be any less conspicuous.”

“If it meant the difference between having a home and spending the rest of your life on the run through the wilds, don't you think it would at least be worth trying?” she asks, hating the way it comes out sounding like a plea when it is meant to be anything but. “Maybe... Maybe it would be for the best that way.”

For a long while nothing further is said between them, each second passing slower than a lifetime as Hawke waits for his response. Her lower lip catches between her teeth, biting back against the urge to ask him to stay. This is not her decision to make, and she will be damned if she permits such selfishness after everything he has already given her, no matter how much it will kill her to see him leave again.

Eventually the silence breaks. Hawke goes rigid as the stone at her back, pulse skipping a beat at the first sound Fenris makes before it spurs itself on, faster than before.

“Do you... wish for me to leave you?” he asks haltingly. The dejection in his voice is well hidden but still obvious enough to make Hawke's head snap up, her chest aching as something hot and barbed lances itself through it.

“No!” she says quickly, as much conviction as she can managed forced into the word, the sharpness of it making Fenris jerk to face her as well. “Of course I don't, but—”

“Then I will stay.”

“I — Fenris,” Hawke stammers, taken aback by how easily his answer comes, “you know I can't ask that of you.”

“You haven't.” He glances down at her lap, a short second of hesitation passing before he reaches out. His hand closes gently around her own before he brings it to rest against his thigh, watching intently as he drags his thumb down the center of her palm in a slow, repeated caress. “As I see it, I made my decision to follow you some time ago.”

Relief, cool and soothing as spring water, floods through her, only to see itself chased by a swift-rising affection potent enough to leave her dazed. Her heart feels suddenly too large, ribs aching as it swells in her breast, pushing against her lungs to make her breath come quick and tight. A vision of a similar discussion between them forms in the back of her mind, its memory still fresh enough for her to recall how he bore the same determination, spoke with the same unvarnished honesty as he does now.

“Yes, well,” she says thickly as her eyes begin to itch, “given the extenuating circumstances I wasn't sure if certain promises still held.”

“There is nothing that could happen which would make me wish to leave your side,” Fenris says, strong and clear, his hand squeezing itself around her fingers. “ _You_ are my home, Hawke. Not Kirkwall, not some different city. So long as you will allow it, I would see it kept that way.”

Her eyes are burning now, tears welling which she refuses to let him see. It galls her to think that the future he has bound to hers now stands so slight a chance for peace, and whatever once-promising horizon there may have been has turned bleak and shrouded. Yet as terrible as it may be for her to be glad of such things, she cannot help but find comfort in knowing she will not have to face whatever comes on her own.

Her fingers are rough against her eyes as she drags her free hand across them, swiping away as much evidence as she can manage before she offers Fenris a bleary grin. “I suppose that makes the both of us, then.”

A smile of his own comes in answer, his fingers leaving hers as he wraps his arm about her back. Hawke lets him pull her in to his side, his hand falling to rest against her waist while she settles close enough to lean her head into his shoulder, a hint of leather and oils mixed with lyrium wafting across her nose. She sighs, the familiar scent of him one more comfort to still-rattled nerves.

“It should be interesting, don't you think? Being wanted criminals together, and all that.”

A chuckle rumbles through him, the sound deep in his chest. “Indeed. A tale fit for one of Varric's books, I'm certain.”

“Maker, I hope not. I'd much prefer a nice, quite retirement in exile if it's all the same to you,” Hawke says, snorting. “Besides, I think we've more than had our fair share of spectacularly terrible coincidences and piss poor strokes of luck. What else could possibly go wrong?”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Present  _

 

It is intriguing, Hawke thinks as her friends speak amongst themselves in hushed voices, to see how quick, how eager they are to begin forming their next course of action. It is clear they are concerned for her well-being. More than once someone stresses the importance of ensuring they ‘do what's best for Hawke’, and the anxious, sidelong glances she sees each of them cast in her direction throughout the conversation are too numerous to count. Their dedication is quite admirable, a fact she recalls knowing long before now, back in a time when such things would have been met with an overwhelming sense of sentiment and gratitude rather than the mild interest she feels now. Why they seem so determined to keep her from the templar's care she does not understand; the sole purpose of their order is to see to the guardianship of mages, tranquil or no, and to not only oppose, but actively prevent them from carrying out their duty seems an adverse choice. 

She can sense, however, that to broach such a subject now when tensions have yet to ease would also be unwise, no doubt serving only to make what is so clearly an already unpleasant discussion for them worse. And so she again chooses to remain still and mum, content to simply listen as they debate what should be done.

“Should we leave?” Merrill asks with a sniff, her hands falling to wring themselves at her waist, wide eyes casting a wary gaze towards the treeline. “Those templars – do you think they'll come after Hawke again?”

“No, Daisy.” Varric's head shakes, solemn as he cuts a short glance towards Fenris and then Isabela. Mended though they may be they have not yet been given the chance to wash themselves, blood spilled in their skirmish now dried ruby dark against skin and armor both. “They won't be giving her any more trouble.”

Merrill catches on quickly, her knuckles turning white for the barest of moments when she follows his gaze and takes in the full sight of them. “Of course. I'm sorry, I... suppose that was a silly question of me to ask.”

“She's still right to worry,” Aveline says, her back now straightened and something hard as steel making its way into her voice and across her face, the redness around her eyes Hawke had noticed earlier in the night faded but not gone. “Templars or no, we should still put as much distance between ourselves and that camp as possible – get out of the woods and back onto the roads for a while, even.”

“You sure that's a good idea?” Varric asks with a skeptical lift of his brow. “Don't you think that would leave us a bit too, er, exposed?”

“Of course it will, but right now speed has to take precedence over subtlety. Ridiculous as it sounds, the daft choice is our best chance at avoiding any more...” A pause, Aveline's steadiness slipping as she looks across their gathering to meet Hawke's eye. She watches the guard woman intently, unable to find a reason for the tightness at her mouth or the way she forces a swallow down her throat before continuing, her gaze turned pointedly away. “... unexpected predicaments. So long as we're careful about it we should be fine.”

Isabela gives an agreeing hum as she steps over to one of the packs scattered about the campfire, the buckle undone and flap thrown open with a quick flick of her fingers. “Never thought I'd hear myself say this,” she says as she rifles through it, standing a moment later with a scrap of a cleaning cloth and canteen of water in her hands, “but the big girl is right. Better to make a quick exit than sit around waiting for some new group of bastards to swoop down on our asses.” The canteen's stopper pulls free with a soft  _ pop _ , a splash of water pouring onto the rag before she drags it against the mess splattered along her arms. “There's an inn I know of not far from here, place called ' _ The Crimson Griffon _ ' . We can stop in there, set our bearings and get ourselves a decent meal.” 

“And it's out of the way?” Aveline asks. “Safe?”

“They don't ask too many questions if that's what you mean,” she says as she bends to wash the blood from the now-healed gash across her thigh, “so long as your tab is paid up before you leave, that is. It's just outside of Ostwick – used to stop in for a night or two when we'd pull into port with _The Call_. Only place for miles you can get a decent pint that doesn't taste like watered down piss.”

“How far?” Fenris asks shortly, the question coming out hard enough to make Merrill give a short, startled jump. Isabela, however, is unperturbed, her movements smooth and unhurried as she brings herself back to her full height.

“Once we get back onto the road it'll take the better part of the day. Should be able to make it before midnight if we get ourselves up and moving early enough.”

The elf gives a terse, decisive nod. “Dawn then. I will take first watch.”

He spins on his heel, pace brisk as he walks away from the group, moving until he pulls even with a lone oak tree growing halfway between the forest's edge and the center of their clearing. Arms folding across his chest he leans his shoulders back into the massive tree's trunk, mouth tight and eyes hard.

Someone coughs quietly and Hawke turns to see Anders drop a closed fist from his mouth to his side. “Are you sure traveling that close to a city like Ostwick is wise?” he asks, lines forming across his forehead as he sends a wary look in Isabela's direction. “There's no way they won't have heard the news from Kirkwall by now. They'll no doubt have been told to keep watch for Hawke, for – for me.”

“It isn't the brightest idea we've ever had,” Varric says, Bianca creaking against his back as he shrugs, “but we don't exactly have a lot of other options at the moment either. If we play it safe we've at least got a chance of making this work. The way I see it, Blondie, you're smart enough to know how to keep yourself from being too obvious, and Hawke...” A gloved hand rises to the stubble at his chin, rubbing. “Well...”

“You let me worry about that,” Isabela says, the soiled rag now thrown carelessly towards her pack. “If I can break my way into an Orlesian prison I think I can manage sneaking Hawke past a half-drunk tavern keep.”

“I suppose we should get some rest while we still can, then,” Merrill says softly, fingers toying with the edge of her chainmail at the gap at the bend in her elbow. “Fenris seems to want an early morning.”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the group, and it is not long before they have all begun to settle, bits of armor shed and bedrolls rustling as they shift them in the grass.

“What do you say?” Isabela asks kindly, one hand coming to rest against Hawke's back as she crosses to where she watches the others quietly. “Ready to turn in for the night?”

“Yes.” She nods, turning to let herself be guided towards a set of three empty bedrolls on the far side of the campfire. Boots and satchel are placed gently by her pillow, a travel-worn blanket unfolding in her hands when she flatly says: “Fenris is troubled.”

Isabela's daggers clink as she shucks them – straps and all – from her shoulders and onto the ground. “Considering the night we've all had, I'd be more concerned if he wasn't.”

“He did not expect to find me tranquil,” she says simply, a reserved curiosity proding at the back of her mind. “But Varric has said you knew it had been templars who took me before you reached Varlen's camp. Did he not realize this was a possibility?”

This makes Isabela pause, her own blanket left hanging between her hands as she looks up. Her eyes are softer now, darker, and Hawke thinks her to be much more exhausted than she originally seemed. She sighs, movements now slower, more deliberate.

“We all did,” she says, in a hush nearly too low to hear. “Varric sat him down that first night we found out, warned him there was a chance they'd have already gone through with the rite.” Black brows draw themselves tight as she stares out to where Fenris stands beneath the oak tree. “I think he was just hoping he'd manage to reach you first.”

“I see.” Hawke follows her gaze, face smooth and chest still as she takes in the sight of him, rigid as stone. “It was not my intention to cause him distress.”

“Believe me, Kitten,” Isabela says as they both begin to lower themselves beneath their covers, no sign of humor true or false to be heard in her voice, “he isn't blaming you.”

 

* * *

  

Hawke slips from sleep to consciousness quickly and smoothly, her eyes opening to find it is still dark, the sky in the east just beginning to turn grey with dawn's arrival. From where she lays on her side she can see that the campfire has long since died, flames turned to embers and thick smoke, its scent strong where it has settled into her clothing and hair.

Someone turns beneath their covers, and Hawke glances up to see Fenris has claimed the free bedroll at her right. He sleeps on his side, facing her, his now-cleaned breastplate and gauntlets set alongside his sword above his head. Brow turning taut he moves again, his blanket shifting down his body to leave one hand uncovered, a flash of something red catching Hawke's notice. The slip of fabric normally found about his wrist is clutched within his palm, its length woven about the width of his hand and between each of his fingers. Puzzled, she watches while the grip he keeps around it tightens as he brings it closer to his chest. She does not doubt he had removed it while seeing to his gear, having seen him untie and fold the scrap with care bordering on reverence countless times, but what she does not understand is why he had not seen to refastening it once finished with his work.

Before Hawke can do more than wonder at the reasoning behind the change in his behavior, her attention is drawn away by the sound of muffled movement coming from the other side of their camp. Unable to see who or what it is from where she lies, she brings herself upright in her bedroll, her covers folding neatly in her lap as she peers across the remains of the fire. Anders, staff and pack strapped to his back, steps carefully in the space between Merrill and Varric's sleeping forms. He stops when he stands at the dwarf's feet, one hand slipping into a pocket of his coat and appearing again seconds later, a crisply folded piece of paper caught between two fingers. Brow furrowing, he bends to tuck the parchment into the cuff of Varric's duster, its dull white distinct enough against the dusky leather that it will be impossible for him to miss it once he wakes.

A second passes where Anders does not move, eyes shifting from his paper to Varric's face. Then his shoulders lift and drop with a heavy sigh, head shaking as he pushes off against his knees and brings himself upright. Sleep has done nothing to ease his weariness, the lines drawn across his face and dark, angry circles beneath his eyes more prominent from the night before. He raises his hand to rake his fingers through hair that he has not yet bothered to draw back into a tail as he looks back, a lingering glance cast around to the rest of their group. Hawke is the last his focus falls on, eyes closing on a slow, startled blink when he sees she is awake and watching.

Her head tilts in question, only to have him drop his gaze away from hers, shamefaced. Without a word or gesture he turns away, pack drawn higher between his shoulders as he begins to walk silently towards the edge of the clearing.

She is not sure what possesses her to do so – it is clear Anders has made a decision, one she finds neither disappointment nor relief in – but as his back begins to disappear into the pre-dawn, Hawke stands. The grass is cold with dew beneath her feet when she follows after him, the hem of her robe turning damp as it drags across the ground with her steps, though she pays the discomfort no mind. She does not stray far from the others, walking only as far as Anders has seen fit to before stopping several yards away from Fenris's oak tree to stare off into the forest.

“You are leaving.”

“I have to,” he says solemnly, head falling forward, hanging with no move made to look at her. “So long as I'm alive the templars are never going to stop hunting me. If I stay I'll only be putting everyone else –  _ you _ – in more danger than I already have. I can't... I  _ won't  _ let that happen.”

“I do not understand,” Hawke says evenly, one brow lifting in the slightest of arches. “Varlen and his men are dead. They pose you no more threat.”

His head shakes, a hand raised to rub at the back of his neck. “There will be others, Hawke. Varlen may have been more eager than the rest, but the Order won't stop at one attempt to take me. Eventually they— They most likely will, and if you're there with me when they come, they'll take you away as well, to the White Spire or whatever other prison they deem fit,” he says through a shake in his voice, the knuckles of the hand against his neck turning white as his grip tightens. “And I would lose whatever possibility I have to help you.”

“You know as well as I that the rite is permanent, Anders. This assistance you wish to offer me will make little difference, if any.”

“So far as we're aware, yes.” Now he turns to face her, teeth pressed into the swell of his bottom lip, and there is something wholly different in the way he holds himself, the way he looks at her. His eyes have locked onto her own; wider, bright, a flicker of the old resolve Hawke recalls from when his work had been the product of moral conviction and not desperation. “But that might not be as true as we once thought. A friend of mine, one of my contacts from the underground who kept herself hidden long enough to make it out of Kirkwall, managed to get a letter to me not long before... before. She couldn't tell me much, but she said there have been stories, whispers about research being done somewhere in the west of Orlais to see if it can be reversed, and that there's more of them cropping up every week. I know it isn't much, nothing substantial – rumors and wishful thinking more than anything else.” The hand against his neck falls to his side, fists balling as his chin lifts, jaw hard. “But if there's any way, any chance for me to fix what I've brought down on you, it's worth whatever disappointment might come.”

“You place fault on yourself for something you have not done,” Hawke says as a soft breeze carrying the scent of woodsmoke rustles through the grass at her feet. It pulls through her hair until a strand falls free; Anders follows it as it flutters in the air and then falls, settling itself awkwardly across the bridge of her nose. She does not reach to brush it back into place. “There is no need or reason for you to feel it necessary to make amends. I am content, Anders.”

A small, brittle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, disappearing well before it can reach his eyes. “Under better circumstances I think you'd feel differently. I may not have been the one with the brand in my hand, but Fenris was right. I'm not blameless in this either. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try.” Hand raising he reaches out, the pads of his fingers cool against her brow as he brushes the stray piece of hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. She is still as the flat of his palm slides down, cupping itself against her cheek. His expression shifts to something unreadable, soft and hard at the same time as his eyes flick up to her own. “It's the least of what I owe you.”

Fingers shift to clutch gently at the back of her neck, a shuffled step closing the distance between them. Anders pauses, his face dipped close enough to Hawke's for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. He smells of woods and earth as the rest of them do from their travels, but beneath it a hint of ink, leather books and Darktown lingers. She wonders idly as she watches his eyes close, his head move to press his mouth to hers, how much longer the scent will remain.

The kiss is short, chaste. No sooner has Hawke taken notice of the way his whiskers scratch against her cheek than Anders has pulled away, his eyes still closed as he rests his forehead against her own.

“I may have failed Karl, but I won't fail you. I  _ will _ see you again, Hawke,” he says, the sound of it more reassurance to himself than promise to her. “Soon.” 

And with that he is gone, pulling away to turn back towards the forest without a second glance, Hawke placid and silent as she watches him disappear into the shadows of the trees.

 


End file.
